


Centennial Man

by madscientist1313



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Birthday Sex, Bucky Barnes Feels, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madscientist1313/pseuds/madscientist1313
Summary: Bucky may not want to celebrate his birthday, but you’ll be damned if you let his 100th go by as just another day.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	Centennial Man

You’re gone when he wakes, that side of the bed cold and empty.

He twists around, fingers idly gripping the crumpled sheets where your body should be, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as he blinks the room into focus. It’s dim but not dark, a sliver of early morning light spilling in through the crack in the curtains, still drawn – unlike how he leaves them when he gets out of bed in the morning, tearing them open to bathe you in the offending light, forcing you to writhe and moan and _finally_ get up.

But today… you’re already up.

He slowly turns back around, rubbing his stubbled face into the _million_ thread count sheets you insisted on buying a few months back – _new sheets for a new home!_ – before landing his eyes on the bedside clock. His brows pull tightly together, confusion tugging his frown even further. Nine o’clock? He lets out a groan and rolls onto his back, a knowing, “Damnit,” flowing languidly out of him as he rubs at his eyes.

You turned off the alarm. Of course you did. You turned off the alarm to keep him in bed and then you disappeared to go do… something. Even though he _told_ you – repeatedly – to treat this just like any other damn day.

He hears the front door open, the crinkle of a paper sack, a sharp, “Ooop,” in your voice to likely mark a near trip or spill. And he pulls himself up and out of bed.

“What are you doing?” he asks, stepping out into the hallway, tugging a T-shirt over his head, not even bothering to do up the jeans he pulls on. He peers into the kitchen, parking it at the breakfast bar to watch as you merrily pluck item after item out of a large paper bag.

“I went to our corner bakery,” you state, not even turning to look at him, so intent on unpacking the goodies. “I got croissants,” you spin then, just long enough to offer a quick raised brow, “obviously,” and turn back to the counter. “A blueberry muffin. A lemon poppyseed. A bran muffin,” you intone slyly, whipping back around to face him. “Because old men like you need their fiber.”

“Ha, ha,” he spouts, grumpy frown still painted on his face.

You reach behind and grab a single plate from the counter, pluck a paper coffee cup with the other hand, and step over to the breakfast bar. “ _And_ ,” you announce with a flair, setting the plate down in front of him, “pain au chocolate. Because it’s my baby’s birthday. And he deserves it.” You wiggle your brows playfully, getting met with little more than a dramatic eyeroll from Bucky.

He points to your other hand. “That coffee for me?”

“Of course,” you state, setting it down in front of him before rocking back on your heels, crossing your arms over your chest, and offering an almost chiding glare. “Black. Plain. Boring. Just like you.”

He plucks the plastic top, tosses it to the side. “I told you… I don’t do birthdays.”

“You did _my_ birthday,” you say with a shrug.

“Yeah,” he says after downing a long, hot sip. “You would’ve thrown me out if I hadn’t.”

Your face twists with admonishment. “No,” you intone, narrowing your eyes severely. “You just like being the gift giver, the one who celebrates other people. The _hero_.”

“Making you dinner for your birthday makes me a hero?” he asks, lips finally quirking into a small, crooked smile, a hint of mirth twinkling in his eyes as you roll yours in annoyance. He plucks a pain au chocolate from the plate, takes a giant bite, devouring almost half the pastry at once. “This is it, right?” comes out of him amid buttery crumbs as he speaks around the food in his mouth. “No party… no _nothing_ , right?”

Another eyeroll, this one so deep it almost hurts. “Really, I should just count my gift to you as talking Tony out of that damn party.”

He swallows thickly, takes another quick sip of coffee to wash down the pastry. “I don’t get it. He hates me. Why would he want to throw me a party anyway? Unless it’s _because_ he hates me… and he knows I’d hate it.”

“First of all,” you mutter spinning back around to grab your own coffee off the counter, “He doesn’t _hate_ you.” You shrug. “He just doesn’t _like_ you. And yeah, you being annoyed by even just the thought of a birthday gathering probably gives him a monstrous hard on.”

“Could do without that image,” he mutters before shoving the rest of the croissant into his mouth.

“But really, that man will take _any_ opportunity to throw a party. Don’t make this all about you.”

“My birthday,” he states simply. “Not about me. Got it.”

You sweep out of the kitchen, rounding the breakfast bar to pull up next to him. “Nat’s covering for you this morning – ”

“You could’ve just said that instead of turning off my alarm,” he interjects, a bit of an edge to his voice.

You give him a _get real_ stare. “You still would’ve gotten up by six… still would’ve gone down to the gym. It’s your _birthday_ , you can sleep in one damn day a year.”

“Mm-hmm,” he mutters, reaching out for the remaining chocolate pastry.

“Anyway,” you intone, swiftly plucking the treat from him and tearing it in half, returning only a portion to his waiting, open hand. “As I was saying… Natasha’s covering for you, so no work today. Steve wants to hang out, so I said I’d send you his way for a bit. But I need you back here by six.”

“Why?” he asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Because it would be rude to keep the mariachi band waiting,” you snipe. “Why do you think? We’re having dinner.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“Good, ‘cause we’re staying in.”

His eyes widen, brow arching into an utterly incredulous expression. “Don’t take this the wrong way, doll, but I don’t want you to cook either. I might not want to _celebrate_ my birthday, but that doesn’t mean I want to get food poisoning for it.”

“I’m not going to…” You let out a low, annoyed growl. “You’re the worst. Just go… do whatever you want to do for a few hours.”

He reaches out and captures you with his metal arm as you try to scurry off beyond him, back to the bedroom. “What if what I want to do is right here?”

You swat him away, aiming a pointed finger as you take a single, wide step back. “No,” you declare, trying – and failing – to keep your lips from curing into a devilish smile. “Not now. Not yet.”

He turns back to the breakfast bar with a grunt. A scoff. A bitter huff. “I gave you two orgasms before the sun even came up on your birthday.”

“ _Psht_ ,” you scoff. “I was barely awake. Probably dream faking.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nope. I rocked your world.”

Your eyes roll back so hard that this time it _definitely_ does physically hurt. “You are such an old man.”

000

“You should have a little more faith in her,” Steve says with a chuckle as he swipes at his hair in the locker room mirror, pinching a chunk between his fingers and twisting.

Bucky snorts in reply, rolling his eyes at his friend’s – frankly alarming – love affair with 21st century hair products as he does little more than viciously rub a towel through his own just washed hair. A two-hour run. Some _light_ sparring followed by _heavy_ lifting. A long ass shower. And he’s finally ready to face whatever you have cooked up for him. Mostly.

“You’re acting like she’s gonna throw you a surprise party,” the still-preening super soldier says, barking out a quick laugh when Bucky turns on him with a raised, wary brow. “She’s not going to do something we all know you’d hate.”

“I _hate_ celebrating my birthday,” he mutters vaguely as he tosses the towel into a hamper by the door and roughly pulls on a sweatshirt.

“You didn’t used to,” Steve says, finally turning away from the mirror and locking onto Bucky’s eyes with a rather gloomy cast. “Hell, you used to drag me around to every soda shop and dance hall in the city. Kept me out all night just because it was _your birthday_ and you _damn well had the right_.”

Bucky shifts his eyes away, unable to see such memories – vague, unattainable recollections of his past life, an utterly _other_ life – through the simple, reminiscent lens of his friend. “Yeah, well. That was a long time ago.”

“Alright,” he sighs out, an almost disappointed edge to his voice. “Well, for what it’s worth… happy birthday, Buck.” He whips on a stiff button down – ever the dapper fella – and begins to do it up, keeping the sour-looking man in his periphery. “And just… be nice.” He heads for the door, dropping a hand to Bucky’s shoulder as he goes, giving him a swift jostle as he states, “She’s trying to do something nice for you. Don’t be a jerk about it.”

He does little more than mutter in response – something bleak and unintelligible that comes out like a lazy grunt – and turns to follow him out of the locker room, out of the sprawling gym. Each reluctant step towards the elevator, then down the hall to your newly shared apartment, seems to stutter and slow, his entire body prickling in a heated hesitation.

_Why_ is _it so different now?_ he muses dimly. _Why does celebrating feel so… wrong?_

Because it shouldn’t be happening, that’s why. Because he never should’ve lived to be 100 to begin with. And the only reason he did is because he was transformed into some sort of ageless monster, designed to kill. To _end_ life. There’s no reason why anyone should be celebrating the beginning of his.

But of course, he’d never say that to you, would never tell you that he was undeserving of kindness or love or even just a birthday dinner. He’d tried that once already, and it ended with him donning a split lip. _Tough love_ , apparently, was a phrase to live by where you came from.

“Ah,” you squeak out, an animated leap accompanying the all too excited utterance as you flash a wide, bright smile the moment he steps through the door. “You’re back! Perfect timing!”

His eyes blow wide as he looks just past you, cocking his head to peer at the fully made table to your left. “What is all this?” he asks with a laugh, sauntering over to the pristine settings and pulling in a long breath through his nose, taking in the strong aroma of… “Steak?”

You nod. “But don’t worry. I didn’t make it. I promise.”

Another laugh, and the accompanying smile lingers easily on his face, strain lifting from his shoulders as he watches you slip over to the counter to pour a couple fingers of what looks to be _damn fine_ whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

“Sit,” you demand, dangling the glass dangerously between thumb and forefinger, waving it slowly back and forth in front of his face.

He does as requested, dropping into the chair, and reaching up for the glass only to have you flop heavily into his lap instead. A surprised _oof_ blows out of him, followed by an amused, “Hey,” as you settle in and take a single, slow sip. Your eyes close, the softest hum of pleasure slipping from your lips as he slides the whiskey from your hand. “Good?” he asks before taking a long pull himself. “Mm, yeah,” he mutters, swiping his tongue languidly over his lips. “That is good.”

You nod and lean over to hack away at the giant, bloody steak on the table. “ _This_ ,” you say with a flourish as you spear a bite with the fork and bring it up to Bucky’s mouth, “is from Donovan’s. One of Tony’s favorite places.” You wait until he accepts the bite, his lips still curling into a sly grin, before you raise a brow and further explain, “He claims it’ll melt in your mouth.”

Bucky chews slowly, relishing the perfectly rare-cooked meat before swallowing it down and offering a pleased nod. You dive back in and steal a bite for yourself, agreeing with Tony’s assessment wholeheartedly as you leisurely chew before moving your fork over to pick at the massive baked potato. Bucky lets out an airy chuckle in your ear, leaning forward to drop a swift, whiskey-laden kiss at your temple. “Is this _my_ birthday dinner or _yours_?” he asks as he slowly lifts the hem of your shirt and sneaks his cool metal digits beneath.

You jolt in his lap as he splays his icy palm over your ribs and lets out another light laugh. “Fine. Fine,” you mutter, feigning annoyance as you rise and hand over the fork. “I’ll just sit over here… all alone.” You lower yourself into the chair across from him, bottom lip pulling into an overdone pout, all in the hopes of getting even just one more precious, sunny laugh out of him.

It works too. One laugh, one smile, each bleeding easily into the next as you sit across from your 100-year-old counterpart. Your – sometimes better, sometimes worse – other half.

The two of you slip easily into the moment, enjoying a calm and leisurely – and delicious – dinner together. The few words that fall from either of your lips – all too often busy with the succulent steak, dripping-with-butter potato, oddly _amazing_ brussels sprouts – are truly unneeded, talking feeling wholly underrated when you can simply bask in the presence of one another. And play a dangerously distracting game of footsie beneath the table.

Once the meal is over, both plates practically licked clean, you jump up to clear the dishes, eager to get at them before he tries to take over. You drop everything into the sink with a clank and a thud – wince when you hear him hiss out a disgruntled, “Easy, baby.” – and pour him another drink before turning to slowly back out of the kitchen, holding the whiskey up like a carrot as you beckon him into the other room.

“Where are we going?” he asks, wily expression on his face, his hands dropping down to your hips as he backs you into the hall.

He begins to turn, not-so-subtly angling towards the bedroom. But you shuffle your feet to a halt. “Uh, uh,” you intone with a shake of the head. “You still have to open your present.”

His fingers trail up your sides, even as his head drops, lips lowering to your exposed collarbone where he sucks a small, sweet, red blossom into your skin. “Yeah,” he mutters into you, flesh hand ducking beneath your shirt, pressing a hot palm to the small of your back. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“No,” you laugh out, stepping out of his loose grip and giving him a small shove. You tug his hand out from beneath your shirt, wrap his fingers around the whiskey glass, and saunter off to the other side of the room to dig out a small, wrapped package. “I just ate a potato that weighed like four pounds,” you say as you slump heavily onto the couch, neatly wrapped gift in hand. “I need some time before… _that_.”

He rolls his eyes, takes a long sip of sweet, brown liquor, and sets the tumbler down on the side table before sitting beside you. “Okay,” he mutters vaguely, that unsure look returning to his face. “How much time do you need to digest?”

You laugh, the bright and tinkling sound swiftly bringing back his delicate, crooked smile. “Shame we can’t all have a super soldier’s metabolism, huh?”

He cocks his head playfully. “Am I not being patient enough? I thought I was being _very_ patient.”

You let out a rather indignant snort and toss the gift haphazardly into his lap. “Yeah, sure. Patient. Also _grateful_. And _kind_ …”

He leans forward then, curling into the bend of your neck and peppering your skin with swift kisses. “I am grateful, baby,” he murmurs into you. “Always grateful for you.”

Your hand slinks up into his hair, fingertips dancing lightly along his scalp. “Well… as for the patience part… we still have cake to get to too.”

“Thought you were full,” he whispers softly, his lips, tongue, now tracing the line of your jaw.

“But it’s your favorite,” you state, craning your head to give him better access.

“ _You’re_ my favorite,” he mutters into you. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Well,” you intone thickly, pulling away just a bit, knowing full well that if you don’t manage to duck out of this now, you certainly won’t be able to later. “That is good to hear. But I have it on good authority that devil’s food cake is your favorite.”

“Really?” he asks, voice sounding utterly disinterested as he tugs you closer.

You nod. “Steve gave me your mom’s recipe.”

His lips still on your neck, body stiffening beside you. He pulls away with a start, confused look on his face. “My mom’s recipe?” You nod again, raising a questioning brow. “You made… my mom’s cake? For me?”

Your hand slowly slides down to cup his cheek, eyes shining brightly as you say simply, “Sure did, baby.”

He looks almost… lost. For a long moment, he does nothing but stare at you, seemingly assessing everything about you. His hand rises to your face, fingertips brushing lightly along your cheek, thumb dropping low to gently press into the center of your bottom lip. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

“I do,” you say, tone straight and serious, teasing quality playing only in your sparkling eyes. You give him a wide smile and a little shove, gaze dropping down to the package in his lap. “Now, open your present.”

That crooked smile returns, not quite a smirk, certainly not a leer. You’ve come to know it as one of his most sincere expressions, even if it isn’t quite as bright and broad as that ever-elusive beam that only occasionally breaks across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It sets off butterflies in your stomach just the same. Because both of those smiles are seemingly only ever directed at you.

He looks down at the gift with a sigh and gingerly tears into the wrapping, pulling it apart to reveal deep brown leather, thick and supple. He slides his fingers delicately over it, over the flat, soft surface, before pulling it out of the wrapping entirely and flipping it over in his hands.

“It’s a new journal,” you mutter, tone suddenly peppered with apprehension. He looks up, expression unreadable, and you give a short shrug. “You only ever write in those notebooks and… important things… like your _memories_? Those should have a nicer place to live.”

His eyes lighten to a luminous, icy blue as he continues to stare over at you, _into_ you. “That’s really nice, baby,” he says softly. “I love it.” His gaze drops back down to the book in his hand, brow furrowing as he traces a finger over the sharp, ridged pattern running along the edges of the cover. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” you start, a hint of hesitation working into your tone. “Yeah. That.” You reach over and pick up the journal, flip it over to show him that the same etching stretches along the back as well. “It’s my heartbeat.”

His eyes fly up to meet yours, a quick chortle pulling from his chest. “What?” he barks out, glancing back at the design and noting now that, yes, it does appear to resemble an EKG readout.

“Yeah, I had someone in medical record it for me. And then I sent it off to some… leather smith or whatever they’re called to emboss it… or… whatever.” You shake your head dismissively. “Anyway, it’s 101 beats of my heart. One for every year you’ve been alive. Plus one to grow on.”

“You…” He sputters for a moment, still staring down at the journal, staring down at the very rhythm of your heart sitting in his hands. And then his face splits wide, that big, bright beam you’d been waiting for – _hoping_ for – taking over as he raises his head and locks onto your eyes. “You crazy girl,” he laughs out, shaking his head fondly.

“Crazy?” you bleat out, only barely able to maintain the faux vexation. “I just gave you my heart… almost literally!”

“Still figuratively,” he states with a raised brow. “But I damn sure love it even more now.”

“Well, good,” you breathe out, reaching over and tugging back the cover. “Then hopefully you’ll forgive the fact that I took the liberty of filling in the first entry for you. Go on,” you prod as soon as you see his eyes drop to take in your sloppily scrawled words. “Read it.”

He settles back into the couch with a grin, holding the journal open with one hand as he clears his throat dramatically and begins. “Dear diary,” he reads aloud, choking suddenly on a laugh as he shakes his head lazily back and forth. “You think that’s how I start a journal entry?”

You shrug. “I don’t make it a habit of reading other people’s diaries, so I really wouldn’t know.”

“It’s a _journal_ ,” he corrects, both brows cocked high as he leans back to peer down at you.

You merely roll your eyes in response, tapping the open book impatiently in a swift and silent order for him to continue.

He returns to the page, corner of his mouth quirking into a crooked grin as you press yourself into his side, laying your head atop his shoulder. “Today is my 100th birthday,” he goes on coolly. “My wonderful, brilliant, patient, funny, charismatic, beautiful, delightful, best damn girl,” he breathes out with a snicker, “treated me to breakfast in bed.”

“You were _supposed_ to still be in bed,” you gripe from his side.

He goes on, gentle amusement and utter adoration blooming in his gut, as he reads aloud, “She’s really the best.”

You snake even closer, wrapping your arms around his bicep and singing out, “It’s true.”

He gives a slight nod and returns to the entry. “She ordered steak from the best place in town. Diary, you do not want to know how much that cow cost.” His head cocks towards you, single brow raising in an almost admonishing way. Again, you shrug and tick your eyes back to the page, encouraging him to go on. He does so, uttering, “Then she gave me her heart,” with a gentle fondness.

“I really am a peach,” you mutter, turning your face just a bit and pressing a lingering kiss onto his shoulder.

“You are, baby,” he agrees, dropping his lips to your hair for a moment before returning to finish the entry. He clears his throat again and continues with, “It was simply the best birthday I’ve had in all my hundred years. And the best part of all was the homemade cake, which my girl made with equal parts chocolate and love.” Another snicker escapes him, though it chokes and sputters in his throat as he reads the next sentence, uttering slowly, “and then wore like a nighty so I could lick icing off her thighs all night long.”


End file.
